The Consolation Prize
by HopelessOsaka
Summary: Bad Trio/America. Francis plays, Gilbert preys, and although Antonio is not the only man who does not say what he really wants to, Alfred refuses to notice him the most.


**Pairing:** Bad Trio/America main. (On an emotional level, Prussia to America, France to America, America to Spain.)

**Warning:** Smooching, France's foul language, descriptions of bloodied feet, implicit mention of sexual encounters, and use of human names.

**Setting:** Late in the American Revolution

**Summary:** Francis plays, Gilbert preys, and although Antonio is not the only man who does not say what he really wants to, Alfred refuses to notice him the most.

**A/N: **Bad Trio/America would obviously need more sex, but eh. :/ Here's a challenge: _you_ write a Bad Trio/America pr0nz. Better than this one, which shouldn't be too difficult. :D

I was going to have France speak French like he does in every other fic. But then I was like, "F#$% this. La langue se moque de mon visage." This, if I recall my one year of French correctly, means something along the lines of "My name is Nice Bananas."

I swear. (No. Also, I strongly suspect grammar fail.)

Written for _hetalia_contest_'s week 06 prompt "bruises." I had to finish it in two days, so apologizes if it didn't work out well.

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**THE CONSOLATION PRIZE**

* * *

Gilbert stands the farthest from Alfred, by the entrance of Washington's tent, his arms crossed and lips twisted from a grim mirth that Alfred is all too aware of. He does not wear the uniform of several winters ago, when he had pressed a kiss against Alfred's blue lips, (as he had murmured, casually by the nape of his neck, _You taste nothing like fruit_. But he'd kissed him again and again, Alfred remembers. His mouth less sour, and tongue hotter, yet still as bitter as parsley.)

"I'm certain that you're both spoiling him more than that damn Arthur ever did," Gilbert drawls to the men who surround him, upon and before the bed, (although Alfred knows that the man had done worse, lifting his body from the profuse snow when Alfred had collapsed against greyed pine, unable to bear the agony of his feebly wrapped feet, oozing puss and bloodied tissue. Gilbert would have carried his toy soldier back as if he were a bride; would have ridden him during the night.)

Alfred tries to protest his claim, but Francis has already turned from his kneel on the floor, interrupting laughingly, "Are you certain, darling? From my understanding of his pouting beneath my body some nights, Alfred was quite a little kitten around you!" Alfred flushes, turns his head away, (Francis has the young man's legs open wide needlessly, indecently, although he does not object to it; why Arthur had refused to allow the man near his precious brother before the war, he at last understands. He had fallen for the sweetness of Francis' love; had broken from the awareness of how little the man cared about who received it.)

Francis turns again, kisses along the edge of Alfred's swollen ankle teasingly, as if to spite the man with a proud, staunch stature wearing little more than civilian attire. Alfred stares at the Frenchman slowly tracing his lips around the blemishes of black and green, his stretched, dour smile during the supposed humorous exchange turning into a smirk as Gilbert's clothes rustles; as the man shifts, seething.

"He isn't so strong," Gilbert states, coldly. "My boy would barely _grimace _at such a pathetic injury."

Francis strokes a hand even higher than he should; caresses the expanse of unsullied skin on the inside of Alfred's lean thigh. He replies, airily, "I suppose you _also_ fucked that broken excuse of an empire, after treating to his injuries."

"I suppose _you_ would." Francis ignores the danger dancing along Gilbert's tone entirely, murmuring dirtily,

"Oh, but_ I_ _would_."

Alfred's stomach twists, burns; he wonders whether he should pummel Francis' pleased face in with the wounded foot the man holds so daintily. His contemplation is cut short as Antonio slides his body against his back, more adamant than he had been, his arms draped about the young man's shoulders and dark curls nuzzling his collarbone (he is why Alfred sits, spread out on his bed like a slut; Antonio does not taunt him, does not deride his affections as all the others do). His lips softly press little kisses down the arch of Alfred's jaw, and a firm one, right against the edge of an eye; against a tear, repressed and stinging.

"Don't be so tart with each other today," he chides the men before them, "He's about to cry, don't you see?"

_No, I'm not,_ he wants to say, but Francis' gaze is already on him, like smoldering blue fire. "Stop this-" _game you're playing at once, _he nearly manages, before Francis has his calves on the bed, his dry, pliable hands on the sides of the Alfred's face. He kisses him too, sweetly against the cheek. "Oh, sweetheart, I was just joking," the man murmurs, too tender, and Alfred curses himself for desiring those words.

"Stop it," he gasps, hoarsely, as he hears brusque footsteps _click clack _across the floor. Gilbert is already before him, however, reminding his lips, bruised yet pinker, fuller now, of a bitter and forceful taste still too dizzying, foreign; too acridly familiar. Alfred is able to shove him away, is able choke out even as Francis drags his fingers along his jaw line, and as Antonio's slender, tanned hand moves up and down slowly, cupped over his straining manhood. "S-_Stop it!_" he cries,_ "_I don't _want_ this."

He freezes when it is Antonio who laughs this time, warmly by the shell of his ear.

"Oh, but we know what it is that you really want, little darling," says Antonio, with a sincerity too benign and gentle, tethering at the edge of strangeness. "Believe me, we do know. We know how it feels—every single one of us— when a man is rejected by Arthur Kirkland."

* * *

**END**

* * *

Lulz I still feel fail.

Here are a few historical notes to finish off, though: France and Spain were allied with America during his Revolution. Prussia is represented during the said Revolution by Baron von Steuben, who is the one mainly responsible for changing the ragtag American soldiers under Washington's command into an actual army.

Prussia's "boy" is the dying Holy Roman Empire, much later to become Germany. France actually takes control of HRE's region after he collapses, declaring him a French satellite during the Napoleon era, under the name "Confederation of the Rhine." He forces his Confederation to fight against Prussia during this while.


End file.
